


Moonriver.

by xmoomzix



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dancing, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pining Sherlock, S4 Speculation, SetLock Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, unestablished johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 03:22:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7828561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xmoomzix/pseuds/xmoomzix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of tragic loss, the comfort of dear old friend and a glimmer of hope.</p>
<p>
  <i>“Love always finds a way, Sherlock. It may take time, these things always do but in the end, it’s always you two isn’t it? John is worth that isn’t he?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Sherlock nods. He had already worked out many moons ago that he would lay down and die for John Watson. The man had walked into his life and turned it upside down and inside out. He took a real, unguarded interest in Sherlock’s life instead of sneering and calling him a freak. John Watson is extraordinary and holds Sherlock’s fascination more than any bacterial growth on a slide ever could. Before John, there was nothing but a sea of faces and a suffocating need for something more to fill the ever-present void. Life was bleak, he was alone. John saved him, in many ways and life without him is.. unthinkable.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonriver.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for tumblr and was overwhelmed by the comments and love received. I was emotional writing this and yes, I have taken inspiration from some of the scenes seen during setlock and the S4 trailer.
> 
> I tagged this as major character death just to be on the safe side but I just want to assure that is neither John nor Sherlock. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy and thank you to those who continually support my writing as I grow and gain confidence in this community :)

Sherlock hadn’t really thought about it before, but he really loathes hospitals. Despite spending hours there for his own research through the years, he cannot really stand the bright lighting, the gleaming white, sterile environment. The light really brought out everyone’s worse features and he is sure he must look a state by the way Molly is looking at him. Pity, sorrow, and underlying hint of anger - all this he can see, conveyed by her eyes. His fingers quiver on their ascent to scratch at his jaw, weeks of neglecting to reach for the razor blade has left him with itchy stubble peppering his face.

“Show me.” He repeats. Even his voice sounds rough to his own ears.

Molly can see that her attempts to turn Sherlock away are futile. Not for the first time, she berates herself for not being that little bit more confident. Legally, she doesn’t have to show Sherlock and she would do anything to get out of this situation, but looking at him stood there, an already defeated man clinging to his composure, what else can she do? Wordlessly, she turns to the trolley and folds back the sheet, revealing the cadaver beneath. Her eyes close, face slightly crumpling as she fights to remain professional. She expects to hear a sob, a wail and somehow that would be better than the silence and stillness that engulfs the room. Sucking in a breath, she dares to open her eyes and in that moment, she wishes that she didn’t.

Contorted in horror, Sherlock’s features are void of colour, eyes stricken and disbelieving. His lips part but no sound comes out. Molly cannot keep the tears at bay as she watches him lift his hands to face, covering his mouth and for a moment she thinks he might be sick. Instead he trembles, his breath finally coming out in tremulous bursts between his fingers. He’s shaking his head, still no words though and Molly covers the body up again quickly.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry…”

He’s backing away now, eyes moist with unshed. Doubling over as if in severe pain, a strangled sound breaks his silence. Molly is at his side in an instant. Sherlock shakes his head again and pulls himself away, blindly turning towards the exit, staggering away, deaf to Molly’s pleas to wait. He leaves the hospital in a blurred frenzy, tumbling through the dark streets with no real destination in mind. The rest of the world fizzes away, leaving him with just himself and an indescribable pain.

His feet carry him to a residential area, where his pace slows as numbness takes over. His head spins and he grasps onto a lamppost for support before continuing, not stopping again until he reaches a sheltered bus stop. Here he collapses on the hard plastic bench, body pressed against the back wall.

“Oh dear, you’ve got yourself into a right state now.”

Sherlock stills. That woman’s voice sounds oddly familiar…

“When was the last time you had a shave?”

Familiar or not, Sherlock is not in the mood for conversation of any kind. “Go away.”

The voice sighs. “Oh pishposh, there’ll be plenty of time to go away later. At least let me see your face.”

An irritated knot forms between Sherlock’s brows as he turns to glare at the woman. “Who exactly are you?” He snaps and then to his surprise, she simply laughs, smiling fondly at him.

Cold ice prickles underneath his skin at that sound. He knows that sound very well. He gazes back at the woman and this time, really looks. Age, possibly late thirties - early forties. Long hair, red dress, crutch, glasses… he squints a little harder and she helps by removing her glasses. His breath catches in his throat.

No. This isn’t.. Did he fall and hit his head?

“Sherlock,” she scolds playfully. “I thought you’re supposed to be clever.”

“M-Mrs Hudson?” Those were definitely her eyes but, how? Is he hallucinating? 

“Yes dear. Although, I was just Martha back when I was this spring chicken you see before you. Not bad, hey?” She smiles and it’s even more clear that this is his landlady. No one can replicate that smile. It doesn’t stop his nerves from being shaken however. He had just seen the real Mrs Hudson at the hospital, lifeless and certainly not smiling. He slides away slightly on the seat. “You’re dead.”

Martha pulls a face at that. “I suppose I am. It happens to the best of us, there isn’t any avoiding it. Anyway, I brought us some chips because I don’t care about ruining my figure and you look like you’re wasting away.” Reaching into her bag, Martha brings out two trays of chips, handing one to Sherlock who hasn’t stopped staring. “Come on, eat.”

The tray of food is warm in his lap and he finally drags his gaze away from his younger landlady to unwrap his chips. He eats robotically and from the way his stomach churns, he concedes that maybe it’s high time he did eat. He can feel Mrs Hudson’s eyes on him, feel the warmth of her pleased smile and he manages a small, nervous smile in return. I am truly losing my mind, he thinks to himself. This is not a situation he would ever imagine himself being in and the whole evening, right from hearing the tragic news of Mrs Hudsons death, has been surreal. A living nightmare.

“I used to live around here.” Martha gestures to the dimly lit houses. “I never did spend too much time at home mind. I liked to go out and experience life. I’ve been around the block a few times. I was a really catch in my twenties did you know?” She laughs and points to her crutch. “Of course I wasn’t so much hip-hop as hip-op.” Sherlock grimaces at the terrible pun which makes her laugh more. “..and you know all about my husbands.”

“And your girlfriend.” Sherlock adds with a conspiratorial arch of the brow.

“Ah yes, good old Mags. She had seven cats - lovely little things but shed everywhere. We had our first date not far from here, come on I’ll show you.” Martha is already up before Sherlock can protest and so he follows, falling into step beside her, both still picking at their chips. Their walk takes them to a pedestrian bridge that stretches across the Thames, light conversation of days gone by filling the otherwise quiet. Martha does most of the talking, Sherlock simply listening, still feeling numb and kind of disconnected from himself. She tells him of her youthful escapades, her ups and downs, the faces she has met and the places she has been. It is with some regret, that Sherlock realises he didn’t know Mrs Hudson as well as he should have.

After discarding their empty trays into a bin, Martha loops her arm through Sherlock’s and leans into him slightly. He finds he doesn’t mind. It makes him feel a grounded while the world wants to throw him off his feet. After walking a little further in companionable silence, Sherlock finds his voice. “Why are you here?”

Martha stops and turns to him, her eyes shine with fondness but there’s a lingering sadness there too. “Because you’re lonely, Sherlock. You’re unhappy.”

“I’m fine.” It’s an automatic response, something he’s well versed in saying. He looks off, away into the distance.

“I only wish that were the truth but it’s clear to everyone that cares about you that you’re not. Far from it. You haven’t been for a while, have you?”

“Why are you doing this?” The distress strains his voice and he looks at her pleadingly.

“Sherlock, I don’t want you to give up. Don’t give up on him. He makes you happy, you come alive when he’s around. Everything’s a big old mess, I know, but don’t do this to yourself.”

Beside her, Sherlock bristles slightly, shoulders pulling rigid.

“I’ve seen the way you look at him, like he’s the most precious thing in the world. I notice -”

“But he chose her!” Sherlock had meant to sound angry but his words falter as his voice cracks. A sharp exhale follows and he’s turning his back, blinking away tears. “He chose her and she’s going to hurt him. I don’t know how, I don’t know when but its coming and I don’t know if I can watch him break again.”

“Now listen here Sherlock Holmes.” Martha rounds on him, a sternness that reminds him of his own mother in her eyes. “I have put up with a lot over the years but I cannot watch you hurt yourself like this. That Mary or whatever her real name is, when she hurts John, when he ‘breaks’ you’re going to be there. You’re going to take John and put him back together again. That’s what you do for people you love.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Love always finds a way, Sherlock. It may take time, these things always do but in the end, it’s always you two isn’t it? John is worth that isn’t he?”

Sherlock nods. He had already worked out many moons ago that he would lay down and die for John Watson. The man had walked into his life and turned it upside down and inside out. He took a real, unguarded interest in Sherlock’s life instead of sneering and calling him a freak. John Watson is extraordinary and holds Sherlock’s fascination more than any bacterial growth on a slide ever could. Before John, there was nothing but a sea of faces and a suffocating need for something more to fill the ever-present void. Life was bleak, he was alone. John saved him, in many ways and life without him is.. unthinkable.

“He might not want.. it might be too much.” There have been times when Sherlock has seen glimpse of returned affection from John but nothing solid enough to ease his mind and any hope of something more between them was crushed with the arrival of Mary.

“If you keep running away and keeping him in the dark, I agree with you dear.” Martha says bluntly. “You’ve been keeping him at a distance and he doesn’t understand why. He’s upset, Sherlock. He’s been wondering if you’re using again, he’s worried. Forget about Mary, cross that road when you get to it, just talk to him. Let him know you’re still here.”

Sherlock turns to rest his arms on the railings and looks down at the dark waters below. It looks oddly inviting. He swallows. “It’s not just Mary though. There’s the baby as well.”

“Not John’s.”

A moment of stunned silence. “How?”

“A woman knows, Sherlock.”

“…that will kill him.” The revelation sends a trickle of fear down his spine and just as quickly, a flare of anger has him gripping the rails so hard his knuckles turn white. “How could she do this to him? Is it not enough that -” He swallows thickly again. “How did I not know? And John? He’s a doctor!”

Martha’s hand covers his own and she squeezes gently. “These things happen and that is why John needs you and you’re going to be there for him.”

Blinking, Sherlock sags, suddenly feeling exhausted and drained. For the next few minutes the pair remain resting against the rails, looking out across the Thames. The future had always been uncertain for Sherlock but back in the old days, he only had himself to account for and honestly, he saw no future for himself. The thought of sending himself to sleep and never waking up had invaded his mind many a lonely night and it would have been a likely outcome had Mike not walked in with John that fateful day. Fate isn’t something Sherlock would normally consider since it didn’t follow any rules and defied logic. There was no science behind it and yet somehow, it’s comforting to think some higher power may have intervened in his downward spiral. Maybe it is fate that Mrs Hudson is here with him now while her body lies cold on a sterile trolley.

Allowing his eyes to close, Sherlock basks in peace that her presence brings, no matter how fleeting it may be, he wants to cherish this. The distant city sounds are muted enough for him to appreciate the gentle lapping of water and the whisper of a breeze. Then another sound drifts to his ears and lifting his head, he realises it’s not his imagination. He can hear music. Violin. He knows the melody well. Moonriver. The music is hauntingly beautiful and tears once again fill the rims of his eyes. This is one of the songs he learned especially for Mrs Hudson, for her birthday.

She taps his arm.

“I have to go soon dear but before I do, dance with me?” She looks at him, a bright smile on her face despite the wetness of her eyes. How can he deny her?

Sniffing, he takes her hand and guides her away from the railings. With one hand resting on her waist he waits for her to mirror him and then they begin. It’s as easy as breathing. They float gracefully, their movements fluid and practiced. The music carries them and for the first time in a long while, Sherlock feels lighter. He smile through the tears that track down his cheeks, treasures Mrs Hudsons laughs as he swoops and dips her. It’s a wonderful, liberating feeling.

Time is lost as they dance, the notes of moonriver seeming to go on forever. Sherlock doesn’t want it to end, dancing is a passion he rarely gets to enjoy. The last time he danced.. was teaching John. His smile wavers.

“Sherlock. You know I have to go, don’t you?”

Wait. No. Not yet! He wants to plead and that heavy feeling returns with full force, stealing his breath and squeezing his heart.

“Don’t look at me like that. You know I don’t like to see you upset.” The music fades and their dance comes to halt. Martha cups his face and wipes at his tears. “Do you know, I always wanted children. It was always one of my biggest regrets but you, Sherlock, I always saw you like a son. I love you like you were my own flesh and blood. My handsome, clever boy.” She presses a kiss to his cheek as a small sob escapes him.

“I want you to know that you are loved by more people than you think. I want you to look after yourself, talk to John. Don’t give up on him, never give up. You both deserve happiness and I know it’s not out of reach. Go easy on that brother of yours too. I don’t agree with everything he does but I know underneath all that ice, he cares for you. Promise me Sherlock.”

“…I’m so scared.” He admits, sobbing and shuddering, his throat tight and chest heavy.

“I know darling, but it’s going to alright. It really is. You just need to let go, alright?”

“I’m going to miss you so much.”

“I’m going to miss you too. John as well, but you know I’m always going to be here.” She places her palm against his chest where his heart is somehow still beating. Then her arms are circling him and he embraces her back, eyes squeezing tightly shut.

When he opens them again, he is alone.

A pain rips through him, hot and sharp and doubles over, a scream tearing from his throat as he clutches his chest. His knees buckle and he sinks to the floor, the world crashing down around him.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when his phone trills in his pocket. A call. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus on the screen.

John…

Habit tells him to ignore it, like he has many times before recently, but Mrs Hudson’s face flickers in his mind and he steels himself to accept the call. He promised her. He’s going to do this. He presses the green button.

“Sherlock? Oh thank god. Thank god. I’ve just had word off Lestrade. I can’t believe - where are you?.. Sherlock?”

After a short pause, he finds the strength to speak.

“I’m coming home.”


End file.
